First Christmas
by katydidit
Summary: It's the first Christmas after Sherlock's return, and everyone's gathered to share the morning. Shameless, shameless fluff. Sequel to Silvestris and The Return. Should make sense without them. Johnlock. Now Complete!
1. Chapter 1

John was in the middle of a rather pleasant dream, and there was something tickling his face. He snorted a bit and flailed a hand towards the offending thing, and if he had been more awake, he might have been more worried about the childish prank that sometimes cropped up during his time in the army, where you squirt shaving cream in your victim's hand and then tickle their face. As it was, he was only concerned with burrowing back down into the dream, where there were hands and lips and a tongue and it was just...very...pleasant.

The tickling thing stopped for a moment, but then returned. This time, the dream dissipated completely and John dragged his eyelids open. He found himself staring directly into a familiar pair of eyes. John swore a bit under his breath, mostly because he was startled. The tickling thing was Sherlock's long index finger ghosting trails along his skin: right now he was caressing the spot between his eyebrows.

It had been months since Sherlock's return, and John was already mostly used to sharing a space with him again. He seldom had nightmares related to that day anymore, and he didn't jump or shout anymore when he opened the microwave and found himself staring at a body part—or the charred remains of one. On occasion, when he woke up to an empty bed, he felt a cold panic spread through him, starting with his stomach and moving outwards into his limbs, but so far every time, he'd found Sherlock in the kitchen or the living room or looking out the window.

Rarely did he find the man stretched out on top of him, watching him with a secret smile.

"What're you doing?" he asked groggily, trying a second time to bat Sherlock's hand away. "'m asleep."

"No you're not." Sherlock's voice was, of course, deep and measured and not froggy in the least. "You don't talk in your sleep."

John did his best to ignore him and turn onto his side. Under his careful (okay, nagging) supervision, Sherlock had been gaining back most of the weight that he had lost when he "died", but he still wasn't "normal" again. It didn't take much effort from John to push him off onto another side of the bed. Didn't do much for his finger, though: it simply moved to trace the curve of the outside of his ear.

"Sherlock, I'm _tired_. It's Christmas morning and all I want to do is enjoy my day off and right now that means sleeping. Can't you go experiment on a half-decaying liver for a few more hours?"

"You're terribly whiny early in the morning," Sherlock teased. John would have rolled his eyes, if he weren't clenching them shut against the harsh overhead light. He heard his partner draw in a breath, and then shift behind him. "John, I mean it. Everyone's coming over in two hours and we haven't gotten anything done yet."

"You mean _I_ haven't gotten anything done yet." It had been Mrs. Hudson's idea for everyone to have Christmas breakfast together, but somehow John and Sherlock had been the ones wrangled into preparing everything. Remembering Sherlock's attempts at a decent cup of tea, John had, of course, stepped in and volunteered to do the cooking.

"I'll help. Just tell me what you want to do." Sherlock said, and tugged gently on John's ear. He groaned. It was strange that Sherlock was so willing to partake in such an event, but John didn't want to argue or draw too much attention to it. If he started talking too much about what had happened while he was gone, Sherlock slipped into a stormy, volatile mood and often stalked out of the flat for hours on end. John definitely preferred this side of him. He turned back onto his back with a long-suffering sigh and looked at the other man. His dark hair had finally grown out of the awful buzz-cut he'd worn it in while he was...doing whatever needed to be done for three years, and the fourth thing that John had done when Sherlock announced that he was back for good, honest (after kissing Sherlock senseless, then trying to retreat to his room in humiliation and shock that he'd done such a thing, then breaking down into a fit of incoherent giggles when Sherlock returned the favor), was make him shave the awful patchy beard that once sat like a stain on his distinctive jawline. Except for the new marks and scars, and the slightest disfigurement of a broken nose that had healed badly, he looked much like his old self, and John had always been rubbish at denying the old Sherlock much of anything, let alone now.

"First," John said as he struggled to sit up in bed. "I am going to get started on the breakfast and you will be in charge of making sure there are no human remains on the table or crime scene photographs in the sitting room."

"I don't see why. Everyone already knows what this place looks like most of the time." Sherlock's voice was beginning to grow dark, and John could only grin at him. He leaned over to press a kiss to his lips.

"We're pretending that they don't, okay? Besides, you're the one who woke me up to get ready. If you don't actually want to help, I'll just go back to sleep..."

Sherlock mumbled something that John didn't quite catch, but rolled out of the bed. John followed suit, and slipped into the bathroom. A quick shower and a shave and he would be ready to start the day.

Sherlock had just begun to mope around the kitchen when someone came knocking on the door, so John shooed him to go answer it. After a moment, Mrs. Hudson floated into the kitchen, carrying a tray laden with a wide array of her homemade biscuits. John greeted her warmly and directed her to place them on the table, and couldn't help noticing the way she kept making little excuses to touch Sherlock. When she thought he wasn't looking, she looked at him with such adoration (and perhaps no small quantity of disbelief) that John had to smile every time he caught her. He remembered with a pang the letters they'd exchanged after he moved across town, how they grew shorter and shorter until finally it seemed like they weren't arriving at all. He'd hated to think of her in that big empty building, but he also didn't like hearing about the tiny, cramped place she wound up sharing with her sister and her brother-in-law.

When Sherlock and John went to visit her after his return, she had looked pale and drawn, worse even than the time she was captured by the Americans. When he first saw her, he seriously reconsidered allowing her to see Sherlock—he was afraid that she would have a heart attack—but quite the opposite happened. At first, she had been angry, and had drawn herself up taller than ever and gone off on such a shouting trip than even John, who had stared down drill sergeants and terrorists alike, had felt like hiding. Sitting next to him on the horrible flowered couch, he'd felt Sherlock begin to cringe, then slump and, caught up in his desire to protect the man and thus keep him from fleeing, John slipped his hand behind him to rest just at the small of his back. His thumb moved gently, in a way that he hoped was comforting, and after a moment or two, Sherlock seemed to relax against him a bit. At some point, Mrs. Hudson saw what was happening and calmed down, switching into Mother Hen mode and tutting at Sherlock about his drawn cheekbones and dull skin. John was certain that her homemade biscuits played no small role in Sherlock's healthier weight.

He could hear them in the next room—Mrs. Hudson fussing about something or other and Sherlock saying nothing at all. He could picture exactly how the other man would look, probably standing near the window while their landlady fiddled with the ornaments they'd filled the tree with (mostly cheap plastic junk from the sales bins and pound shops that began to shed their glitter the instant they were unpackaged). It felt good. It felt...normal.

Well, as normal as he could expect things to get while dating Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

Their second guest arrived shortly after Sherlock received a text. John had just pulled the baked french toast out of the oven, and went into the living room when he heard the door open. Mrs. Hudson just looked at him with confusion that seemed just a bit too thorough to be real. He narrowed his eyes at her, but she just shook her head and shrugged. "You know more about that boy than I do," she said rather too convincingly.

Sherlock soon sauntered back through the door with Molly at his heels. She was rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, as though she had been exerting herself, but all she offered John was a large warm box. "Tyler sends his love," she said with a smile. "He and I baked these last night, but he wanted to go see his mum this morning." Tyler was the boy she was dating now, the one from the vet's office who had owed her some favor or another. John was still happy for her, and Sherlock offered his blessings as well—sort of. "This one's not gay," he'd pronounced to the three of them after a lengthy research session. "Or a consulting criminal." Tyler had shifted uncomfortably, and Molly patted his hand.

John placed the box on the table next to Mrs. Hudson's cookies and embraced Molly warmly. He'd shouted at her for roughly an hour a few days after Sherlock-the-cat's funeral, but she'd sat there quietly, waiting for him to calm down so that she could defend herself and explain her part in the whole fiasco. Sherlock stood by as well, nodding with clouded eyes as she told their story. Finally, John had sat down very hard on the couch and apologized for his outburst. They'd been even closer, if possible, after that. It didn't hurt that her doe-eyed crush on Sherlock had faded quite a bit and that she was beginning to come into her own, confidence-wise.

She took a seat on the couch next to Mrs. Hudson, who immediately began plying her with knowing questions about "this Tyler fellow", and Sherlock followed John back into the kitchen.

"Lemon blueberry muffins, if I'm not mistaken," Sherlock pronounced before pulling the cover off of the box. The sound he made suggested that he was, in fact, not mistaken. "Brilliant."

"Where did you go just then?" John asked. Nearly everyone was present, which mean that it would be okay to start cooking the sausages and eggs.

"Oh, Molly was having trouble opening the door downstairs," Sherlock answered with a distracted wave. His other hand was hovering over the table, obviously having difficulty deciding between a muffin or a biscuit. John knew that wave, though. It usually meant that Sherlock wasn't being entirely honest with him. He sighed and cracked a few eggs, but didn't press him on it. He had been gone for only a few moments, so it couldn't have been all that bad.

Then Sherlock was at his side, unwrapping a muffin. He picked off a chunk with his elegant fingers and held it in front of John's mouth. "Try this," he commanded lightly. John looked over at him. He was wearing his usual pyjamas—no special flannel holiday outfit for him—but the way his body leaned against the counter, the way he looked down at John, made the cotton look...fantastic. John obeyed, opening his mouth. The muffin was delicious: fresh, and sweet without being cloying, and John allowed his eyes to slip closed as he chewed. When he opened them again, he saw that Sherlock was watching him, incredibly pleased.

"It's just missing one thing, don't you agree?" He asked. John shook his head.

"Are you crazy? It's per—" The taller man cut him off by slanting his mouth against his. Oh, that made sense. John grinned and sank his teeth into Sherlock's lower lip, dragging from him a familiar moan that started a fire roaring low in John's belly. It was over too soon, and neither one completely sure which one pulled away though both of them knew it had been necessary. "I owe you for that," John threatened with a grin, and returned to the food cooking on the stove. Sherlock only chuckled and stuffed the rest of the muffin into his mouth.

Their third guest arrived not long after John had convinced Sherlock to lay the table. They weren't going so fancy as to put out an expensive silk tablecloth or fine china, but their mismatched set of dishes and their chemical-scarred table would do just fine. John had just put the pan of eggs into the oven to keep them warm until everyone had arrived, but just as he was closing it, Greg bustled into the kitchen with several store bags.

"Father Christmas has arrived," he announced, and indeed anyone would be hard-pressed _not_ to call him jolly. Molly and Mrs. Hudson moved to stand in the doorway to the kitchen as he unpacked his bags. "Croissants! And that hazelnut spread you like, Mrs. Hudson! But—" and he grinned even wider as his eyes traveled around the room. "—and I know that this is what you've all been waiting for, booze!" He pulled out a few bottles and set about mixing some kind of cocktail. John wasn't entirely sure about the whole thing—sure, it was Christmas morning, but alcohol had ruined a lot of family gatherings, and he wasn't usually a fan. The other three seemed at least marginally interested. Greg cleared a spot on the counter and procured five wine glasses, then proceeded to mix orange juice, champagne, and some kind of vodka into all of them while John placed the food on the table. They finished at roughly the same time, and Greg distributed the glasses before taking his seat between Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock took a sip from the glass and looked at Greg with narrowed eyes.

"Pineapple vodka," he stated. Greg just nodded. Realization sparked across Sherlock's face, and then he was smirking. "My brother has a tendency of adding pineapple vodka to his mimosas." Greg's careful smile disappeared, and he sat back for a moment as though considering his options. Finally he nodded again.

"He, ah..." The man was blushing. John found it incredibly difficult not to laugh. "He sends his love, but I'm sure you know he's helping your mother with dinner plans."

Molly and Mrs. Hudson exchanged a look, neither quite understanding what was going on but recognizing the situation for what it was. Sherlock took another sip of the cocktail and looked at John for a moment.

"Well, many congratulations to you," he finally managed. Breakfast continued just a bit awkwardly for a few more minutes, until finally Molly was able to break the mood.

"My mum never let me eat hazelnut spread for breakfast," she told Mrs. Hudson. The older lady beamed and spread a thick layer onto a croissant.

"Well, mine either, dear, but I should think that now there's not much she can do about it, is there?"

After breakfast, the ladies volunteered to wash the dishes since John had cooked, but Greg wouldn't hear of it. Instead, he volunteered Sherlock and himself to do the washing. Sherlock, in true Sherlock form, squirmed out of the task with a glance towards Molly and the excuse that he had to go help her with something. Molly vouched for him, which left John standing at the sink with Greg while Mrs. Hudson stood by and fretted about not being allowed to help. "You're not our housekeeper," John informed her, laughing. It was nice to have someone to help with the dishes, in any case.

They had saved Greg for last, knowing that they wouldn't just be revealing Sherlock to the man himself, but also to the rest of the station. They'd talked about it, and Sherlock wanted to go back to his old "job" (such that it was), and that would require, eventually, "outing" himself as alive. Sherlock had put his old hat on and pulled his collar up to cover his face, but it hadn't done any good: Greg had frozen in place as soon as he laid eyes on the two of them. He may have even dribbled some coffee out of his mouth, but the men had been sworn to secrecy on that one. John had been afraid that Lestrade had been in on the deception as well, but his reaction, thankfully, had been real.

There had only been a moment's hesitation, and then Sherlock has wordlessly reached over to take John's hand, looking at Greg all the while. He had then asked somewhat pointedly about any further cases, and it was clear that he was not simply inquiring as to the murders in London, but testing the waters for something deeper. Greg had nodded and segued gracefully into telling the man about some difficult case the team had solved only days before.

Then Donovan had entered the room, carrying a box full of files, and had stopped dead in her tracks. John watched Sherlock's grin spread across his mouth: he knew without turning around who had entered the room. It was as though the woman couldn't figure out which strange thing to marvel at first—Sherlock's return from the dead or the fact that his fingers were laced perfectly with John's. They hadn't given her time to say a word: Sherlock rose and breezed past her. "Do close your mouth, Donovan. I'm not _Anderson_."

There were several loud crashes and knocks coming from outside the door, and after one spectacularly loud one, John could just hear Molly squeak out a painful curse. By the time they'd finished with the washing up, however, and made their way to the sofa and chairs in the sitting room, it had mostly quieted down. Sherlock and Molly still had yet to reappear but John considered starting off the gift exchange anyway. Just as his impatience started to overcome his conscience, the door opened partway and Sherlock squeezed through a thin crack. Molly came through soon after, and they both pointedly ignored John's quizzical look.

Well, fine then. He'd give them their gifts last.

The guests spent the next half hour or so tearing through shiny wrapping paper and exclaiming over the gifts. Sherlock only deduced the first two presents (Mrs. Hudson got Molly amethyst earrings, Molly got Lestrade a new wallet, much nicer than the one Sherlock has pickpocketed just weeks before) before he caught John's Sherlock That's Quite Enough stare and, thankfully, fell quiet. In the pleased silence that fell amongst the wrappings and boxes, while everyone examined and appreciated their gifts in front of everyone else, Sherlock jumped to his feet.

"There's one more," he announced, an uncharacteristically shy grin brightening his features. "Molly, if you wouldn't mind."

She grinned, more excited than shy, and flew to throw open the door. John cast a questioning look towards Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but their faces were carefully blank, eyes fixed on the doorway. With a sigh, John turned his attention to Molly, who was standing with her arms thrust out, as though she were on a game show. Something about the stance seemed...familiar. He narrowed his eyes even as the door opened to reveal a strange structure, multi-leveled, covered in carpet. It took a moment or two for the familiarity to strike him.

Oh.

He rose to his feet, shaking his head without knowing that he was doing it. Molly was supposed to get rid of that. More accurately, Molly and Tyler were supposed to get their own cat and use that for it. It wasn't supposed to turn up back here again. What was he supposed to do with it? He ran a hand over his face.

It had been months since the accident that had taken his cat from his but returned Sherlock to him, and while he was no longer mourning the furry companion, that didn't mean he wanted that...carpet-thing back here again. He looked to Molly for an explanation, but she just beamed at him.

"Sherlock, what exactly—?"

Sherlock merely inclined his head toward the carpet-structure-thing, so John took a closer look. As he looked, a fuzzy black head peeked out from one of the holes. Clear green eyes blinked at him, and then a tiny meow sounded from the darkness. It wore a tiny blue collar, bright and sunny against its charcoal-colored fur. Despite himself, John grinned, and when he reached to retrieve the kitten from its perch, it climbed happily up his chest to nuzzle against his neck, sharp little claws poking through his jumper.

"This one's a boy," Molly informed him once again. "Only he's been...you know, fixed. He's got all his shots, too! And I brought all your old cat stuff back again: the dish, the box..." She was running straight down the list, but her voice faded into the background as the kitten began purring, warm and rumbly, against his ear and he looked up at Sherlock. The taller man was trying not to smile, but his eyes were giving him away. John moved to stand closer to him and, mindful of the kitten currently exploring his shoulders, slipped his arms around his partner's waist. Sherlock returned the gesture and folded both John and the cat into his own embrace.

"My one request," Sherlock murmured into the top of John's head. "Is that you do not name this one after me."


End file.
